Scattered Suns - Kevin J. Anderson [67]
Peter had never spoken freely with the benevolent-looking old man, who also held an entirely ceremonial post with no real power. The Archfather’s cheeks were rosy—makeup, probably—and his pale blue eyes were surrounded by many wrinkles, but his gaze was blank. He said his scripted words and offered his prayer, then led a procession that returned Peter and Estarra to the Whisper Palace.
It was a grand, colorful, and noisy show designed specifically to convince the public that everything was perfectly right with the Terran Hanseatic League.
King Peter felt very tired.
Chapter 31—OSIRA’H
She felt very small as the Dobro Designate marched her into the presence of the Mage-Imperator. Osira’h had anticipated this moment for most of her life; it was time for her to walk down the path of a destiny she had never asked for. Uniformed guard kithmen stood inside the skysphere reception hall prepared to give their lives to protect their powerful leader. Such unwavering loyalty.
Prompted by Udru’h, Osira’h came forward with small, uncertain footsteps. She’d met her father when he had come to Dobro to visit her mother’s grave, and even then she had been filled with doubts about his real motivations. Had he truly been unaware of the horrors? Now her mind resonated with secondhand recollections from Nira Khali.
When she looked into Jora’h’s face, the girl could not drive back the flood of past experiences planted inside her mind shortly before her mother’s death. Through Nira’s eyes, she saw this man as the Prime Designate, a loving and compassionate son of scheming Mage-Imperator Cyroc’h. Jora’h would never have sanctioned the terrible things Nira and the other breeding prisoners on Dobro had endured. Or so her mother had believed.
Seeing him now, up there on the sunlit dais in his ornate chrysalis chair, Osira’h watched through a flood of secondary vision, memories as crystal clear as the colored panes that formed the skysphere above: Jora’h as a younger man holding Nira, his pale Ildiran skin warm against her mother’s chlorophyll-green arms, legs, breasts. She remembered his touch, his kisses, the way he fired her nerves. In a detached way, Osira’h wondered if she had witnessed her own conception.
These were not memories any child should have of her father, but Osira’h felt no revulsion, no sense of voyeurism. Part of her was her mother, and Nira had loved this man, trusted him. She never believed that he had abandoned her. But Osira’h knew the power this man held in his hands. He had done nothing to wipe clean all the forced rapes and the horrific genetic experiments with secret human prisoners, even after he knew the truth. What was he waiting for? Osira’h wasn’t sure her father deserved such reverence. In fact, she wasn’t sure about anything.
The Dobro Designate held back as Jora’h stepped down the dais to meet her. The Mage-Imperator’s eyes glinted with pride and hope. “My brother Udru’h says you are ready, Osira’h. The Ildiran Empire can wait no longer. Do you accept the terrible task that falls to you—to find the hydrogues, form a bridge, and bring them back here, to me?”
Osira’h stood as tall as she could and said what they expected to hear. “I not only accept my duty, I embrace it.”
When Jora’h responded with a warm smile, a part of her wanted to dissolve with happiness. “That is as much as I expected from you—and more.” He tentatively embraced her, but the girl remained stiff, not sure how to respond. Did he truly see Osira’h as his daughter, or merely as a pawn, a tool to be used for the good of the Empire?
Then, with surprise, she noticed a potted treeling that rested in the sunlight next to the chrysalis chair. She felt a pull and a longing in her heart—her mother had been torn from